


hope you survive the experience

by townpariah



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Banter, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/townpariah/pseuds/townpariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>boarding school au: wherein tom is the high strung president of the drama club trying to keep it together and chris is the star of the rowing team who’s apparently genius at maths. they collide spectacularly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hope you survive the experience

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write some silly banter and it turned into an 11K fic. i'm not sure about the tone of this but it's here now and there are no take backsies. kudos to [umakoo](http://umakoo.tumblr.com) for picking apart the typos!
> 
> this fic can also be read [here](http://libearies.tumblr.com/post/109172247904/hope-you-survive-the-experience-11-000-words) on tumblr.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Tom has been boarding all his life and his habits have been shaped by its everyday routine. If the structure of boarding school has taught him anything it’s compartmentalization, time management; his schedule is accounted for down to the second: coursework during the week, extracurricular clubs and recreation on the weekends; he walks to the matron’s office an hour after lunch every Saturday to drop off his mail. He cuts the crust off his sandwiches. He keeps a tin of Nice biscuits to go with his thermos of Earl Grey which he drinks every night after a twenty minute shower before starting in on his homework.

Tom likes order, structure, maintaining the status quo. He likes building model trains and reading if he can afford the time: Hemingway, Shakespeare, Chaucer — Franzen a more recent addition and something of an indulgence.

He’s built quite the name for himself over the years through no influence of his parents, something he’s viciously proud of despite the reputation it’s earned him: president of the beekeeping society, student chair of the drama and chess club, Editor in Chief of  _The Pantograph_. He’s been voted Most Likely to Succeed  _twice_  in a row, losing last year’s campaign after an unfortunate mishap with the printer.

He’s nothing if not accomplished.

Two weeks into the term, his roommate transfers out.

*

The loss of a roommate is not something Tom has time to mourn.

The term is brutal: juggling two electives and trying to find funding for the Winter Play has thrown his schedule into chaos. He’s finding Calculus especially tough now that the Mathematics Department has fired most of its senior staff and he has Addison as instructor. Maths has never really been his strong suit; the class is not essay-based which means he can’t research his way out of it.

Tom spends most of his evenings in the library, tucked in a corner alcove with his calculator and homework packet, chewing the end of his pencil down to a grisly nub. He leaves for the dining hall when it’s almost closing, eating his food cold before spending another half hour poring over his homework. He cuts his showers short so he can work on his problem sets. He sleeps less and is crankier than usual as a result.

When the results of the first Calculus Exam are posted on the bulletin board, Tom skims his fingers through the list of names and finds his in the bottom quartile.

*

David senses his unease. David should’ve graduated two years ago, but his grades are bloody awful. Not nearly enough to warrant getting kicked out, apparently, but he’s an excellent rugby player so perhaps that’s why the school has elected to keep him. He’s won every match against St. Donovan’s. David is in the drama club as vice-chair, having won unanimously through sheer charm and popularity.  Tom’s campaign had been an uphill struggle; he’d made pins and leaflets when there’d only been sixteen other people in the voting body.

David drapes an arm around Tom’s shoulder after a club meeting and says, “You need intervention, mate. The bags under your eyes have bags and you’re still not making the grade.”

“It’s just Calculus,” Tom says, shrugging his arm off. He shuts his notebook and files the attendance sheet away in his clipboard then looks over the club minutes where David has drawn what looks like a doughnut in the lefthand corner of the page.

“I know a guy,” David tells him, waving a hand in dismissal. “He’ll hook you up.”

Tom blinks at him. “I don’t really need hooking up, whatever that means. But thank you.”

David shrugs again. He has the air of someone who smokes pot a lot of the time, like he can’t be bothered with posture. He slouches and leans and is generally a nuisance, but he’s the best forwardSt. Bart’s has seen in recent years. He’d turned down the position of captain because of the responsibility, but he’s pretty much what keeps the team afloat.

“You’re not dyslexic, Tomo,” David says expansively. “That’s not why you’re failing Maths. The problem is that you never give yourself time to relax. You’re always walking around with a stick up your arse; you’re sixteen, not sixty. You need to start acting like it.”

“I never said I was dyslexic,” Tom says petulantly, then adds, “And don’t call me Tomo.” He moves to unhook his bag from the back of his seat but David latches onto his wrist and turns his hand over, uncapping a pen with his teeth to scrawl a name and corresponding house number on the back of Tom’s hand.

David’s grin is distorted by the cap in his mouth, sly and crooked. Sometimes Tom hates him. Most of the time he just wishes David would graduate to save him the grief of pretending his seat as chair has any real bearing.

“Look for Hemsworth,” David says, tipping back his seat once he finishes. “He’s got everything. Anything you want, just name it and he’ll get it for you. He’s your man. He’ll hook you up.”

“Whatever,” Tom says. He leaves, then lifts his hand to eye-level once he’s walked some distance away.

*

Tom doesn’t see Hemsworth until three weeks later at which point his Calculus class has already moved on to Integration.

He isn’t sure what to expect, really. David hadn’t elaborated on what he meant by ‘hooking’ Tom up and Tom doesn’t want to ask lest he fails some sort of test of social savviness.

It’s not uncommon for students to sell prescription drugs under the radar; it’s a bit of an open secret, left largely unchecked to avoid besmirching the school name. Normally Tom stays clear of any shady activity, but from what he’s gleaned, Adderall and Ritalin help you focus. And that’s what he needs right now: focus. He has too much going on all at once, with clubs, and the Pantograph and this term’s course load in general. None of his favourite teachers are with the school anymore. Also, Calculus is giving him a proper migraine.

Tom asks around Thompson House for a Hemsworth and a nervous looking first-year leads him to his room. He leaves as soon as Tom raps on the door. Tom’s almost expecting there to be no answer but then a second later a guy opens the door and grouses, “ _What_.” There’s an accent to accompany the voice and a well-defined body attached. Tom drags his eyes from the thick throat already smattered with blond stubble to the curves of muscles barely concealed by the one-piece Lycra in the school’s navy and white colours. “You row,” Tom says, without thinking. He tries not to stare at the guy’s arms and pivots his attention back to his face.

“Do we know each other?” The guy squints, making his eyes disappear almost completely through the thick of his lashes.

Tom finds himself standing a bit straighter, tilting up his chin. He’s editor in chief of the school paper, he’s not easy to intimidate and he won’t let himself be. “David said you could help me,” he says.

The guy mirrors his stance, standing with his feet a width apart and crossing his bulky arms. “Did he.”

There’s amusement in there though he doesn’t let it show on his face. Even when he lets Tom in, he doesn’t introduce himself.

The letter on his desk is addressed to one  _Christopher Bruce Hemsworth_  but Tom decides then and there to refer to him by his last name.

 *

“So what do you need?” Hemsworth asks, disappearing into his closet to root for a change of clothes. Tom makes himself comfortable at the desk opposite the cluttered bed. The furnishings are sparse and populated with a minimal amount of junk: books and magazines in precarious piles and a map of Australia on the wall. Hemsworth doesn’t have a roommate; the other bed across the room has been stripped clean.

“Are you in drama with David?”

Tom looks up from reading the titles on Hemsworth’s shelf. The books people read in their spare time are often telling, but Hemsworth has both Koenraad Elst and two paperback novelizations of Stargate Atlantis so Tom doesn’t know what to think.

“I’m chairman,” Tom agrees. “Yes.”

“Hmmm. He said you’d come to me. Frankly, I was expecting you sooner.” When he walks back into the room, he’s in a soft grey shirt with the sleeves cut off and faded trousers that hug his long legs. He holds out a hand to Tom. “Did you bring it?”

“Bring what –  _oh! Oh,_ of course.” Tom fumbles through his bookbag and pulls out fifty quid. He doesn’t know how much these transactions will cost him but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Hemsworth gives him an odd look, doesn’t accept the money.

“For ‘the stuff’,” Tom tells him. His face feels suddenly warm from the way Hemsworth is looking at him, almost like he wants to laugh. “For the drugs?” he hedges.

Hemsworth guffaws, throwing his head back. He’s got the laugh of a man: no awkward hiccups in his voice, and smooth as whiskey. He slaps Tom on the back and Tom almost falls forward from the force of it except Hemsworth rights him up again and rubs his shoulder consolingly. “Mate, I don’t know what David told you but I’m here to help you with Calculus.”

“So you don’t sell drugs,” Tom says.

Hemsworth raises an eyebrow. “No, I don’t.” He holds up a finger, cutting Tom off before he can speak, and then proceeds to rummage through the teetering heap of papers on his desk. He pulls out a sheet and shows Tom a problem set. It’s the same test Tom has taken a month before, except all the answers are correct.

“Oh, oh no, I’m not looking at that. Nope!”  Tom says, shaking his head vehemently. “That is most likely stolen and I will not— _no_!” He bats Hemsworth’s hand away from his face and refuses to look anywhere but the wall.

When Hemsworth just laughs some more, Tom curls his hands into fists, silently mortified. A second later there’s the rustle of paper followed by the familiar creak of mattress springs which makes Tom hazard a peek over his shoulder.

Hemsworth has draped himself across his bed, and his shirt is riding up the flat plane of his stomach. He doesn’t look sixteen, with his solid bulk, and his masculine features and his sodding  _stubble_.  Christ.

“So you’re all right with drugs but draw the line at stolen tests?” Hemsworth snorts and shakes his head. He sits up, leaning back on his palms. “Honestly, you people.”

“‘You people’?” Tom echoes. He scrunches his face.

“Don’t take it personally,” Hemsworth says. “You’re a product of your environment and I generally dislike everyone here. But lucky for you I have a weakness for pretty blonds.” He smiles, genially, then holds out his hand again to Tom. “I’ll take your drug money. I don’t peddle stolen tests, I tutor people like you.  Honestly though, this is the first time anyone’s mistaken me for a drug dealer. I’m not sure whether to be insulted or pleased.”

“I-” Tom begins to say. He hasn’t thought of what to say next but Hemsworth saves him the trouble by prefacing before standing up, “Did you remember to bring your problem set?”

*

Hemsworth is the kind of person Tom finds easy to hate: he’s apparently a math genius who’s  _also_ on the rowing team. Tom doesn’t see him around often enough because he’s always away on games, and takes the afternoon class with Addison. Like Tom, he barely has any time to study, but that could easily be said of anyone attending St. Bart’s. Surprisingly, however, Hemsworth scores really well on his tests and the few essays Tom’s managed to skim through while Hemsworth hadn’t been in the room with him read like dissertations.

It’s incongruous to think that a guy wearing Lycra on a regular basis can argue soundly like a politician on paper. It’s so unfair. No one should be both athletic and smart. Statistically, you’re either one or the other.

“How was your test?” Hemsworth asks when they meet later in the week. Every session costs Tom ten quid and lasts anywhere between an hour to a whole day depending on Hemsworth’s mood. Sometimes he’s not so generous when he’s swamped with assignments but generally he makes it a point to see Tom at least once a week.

“I don’t think we’re making progress,” Tom says, despondently, unshouldering his bag and taking the seat across from Hemsworth.

The corner table is one of Tom’s favourite places in the library; the lighting is good, sunlight sifts through the windows, highlighting specks of dust, and it’s always less crowded on a weekend. It’s just out of the librarian’s eye-line, partially hidden by a magazine rack which means he can nap whenever he pleases, or snack, and not get caught.

It seems Hemsworth has caught on because he’s brought a sandwich with him in a Ziploc bag.

“Did you forget the carry the ones again?” Hemsworth asks, hunching over the table. He’s broader than Tom and Tom suspects taller than he appears to be, because he’s always stooping or slouching. Tom knows that feeling because he’s taller than everyone in his year but lacking the necessary grace to accompany it; he’s always felt clumsily out of place in his own body, too big, so he tries to keep his head down.

Hemsworth clicks his pen and shakes his head at him and his stubble catches the light. “I’m always telling you, mate – carry the ones.”

He smiles so softly that his eyes disappear and then he says, “All right then, come here and let me look at it,” which is normally Tom’s cue to slide his problem set across the table. But instead Hemsworth walks around the table to lean casually over Tom’s shoulder, standing far enough that Tom can’t tell him to back off but close enough that Tom can feel just how warm he is. The strings of his school-issued sweatshirt brush Tom’s shoulder when Hemsworth braces himself on the table with his hand. When Tom looks up at him from the corner of his eye, there’s that smile again lifting the corner of Hemsworth’s mouth.

Hemsworth makes a thoughtful noise as he runs a finger down the page, clicking his tongue at most of Tom’s equations. It’s annoying, if a little embarrassing but Tom knows he’s there to help.

“This is going to cost you,” Hemsworth says, before seating himself on the table, crossing his arms but still not taking his eyes off the problem set. “Your equations, my friend, are a mess.  And you’re using the wrong formula here. Look.” He taps the page.

“I don’t have any money left,” Tom mumbles, embarrassed. He’s been spending a sum of his pocket money on campaign material for the winter play; the club doesn’t have a production budget, or enough traction like the rowing team to warrant a hefty yearly stipend. What Tom wants is to put out a play to reaffirm the club’s relevance but that’s hard to do when no one gives a fuck.

Hemsworth stills for a second at the revelation before his gaze drops significantly to Tom’s wrist. Tom hesitates, pulling the sleeve of his overlong cardigan over his watch but the action is aborted when Hemsworth firmly clamps a hand around his arm.

The sleeve of his cardigan slips down and pools at his elbow as Hemsworth lifts his wrist and inspects his watch critically. The watch costs a fortune and has been in Tom’s family since before the war. The fact that Hemsworth is eyeing it like a shylock is particularly distressing.

“Well, then,” Hemsworth says slowly, chuckling, “I think I’ll hold your watch hostage until then.”

Tom grits his teeth but it’s hard to stay angry when Hemsworth is fiddling with the buckle on the strap. He has long fingered-hands, the skin peeling in places and rough with calluses from rowing. His movements are steady, efficient, and in no time at all, he’s slipped Tom’s watch off his wrist and pocketed it securely.

Tom feels a bit ill. “It’s in good hands,” Hemsworth assures him, patting him on the back. Then he hunkers down next to Tom and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper, waggling his eyes at Tom to prompt him to begin.

“I’m stupid, I’ll never get into Cambridge,” Tom whimpers, an hour later, cradling his head in his hands. He rubs tiredly at the ache already forming behind his eyes.

Hemsworth doesn’t dignify that with any sort of response and instead leaves Tom’s side. Tom glances up when he hears a rustle of plastic only to see Hemsworth cutting up a sandwich in half with a plastic ruler. It’s sloppy; he gets jam all over his thumb and palm.

“Sandwich?”  Hemsworth asks, lifting the other half in Tom’s direction. “It’s peanut butter.” He licks his thumb.

“Half peanut butter, half jam?” Tom tilts his head in question and Hemsworth just shrugs, looking sheepish.

Tom accepts it for what it is – a peace offering – and gingerly peels off the crusts. He gets crumbs all over his answer sheet so he moves it out of range. His half has dwindled significantly in size after so he eats his sandwich sparingly, taking tiny careful bites until there’s nothing left but bits of crust he’s not been able to cut off.

“ _Ah_ ,” says Hemsworth, watching him.

Tom wipes instinctively at his cheek, a knee-jerk reaction whenever anyone looks at him the way Hemsworth is now. It’s a product of having been bullied as a child, before he was sent to boarding school; he hates feeling like there’s something he doesn’t know, something he’s missing that should’ve been obvious. “Did I get it all over my face?  _What?_ ”

Hemsworth shakes his head. Still, there’s a gleam in his eyes that Tom doesn’t know what to make of. He takes a huge bite out of his sandwich and finishes it in three gulps.

*

The thing about being editor in chief of the school paper is that Tom has to hold everything together, oversee the minor details. Tom is as hands on as he can possibly be because in the end there are fewer problems that way; he’ll have no one to blame but himself if things don’t turn out the way he wants them to. There’s nothing as satisfying as a job well done, all the more when you’re recognized for it.

The next issue of the Pantograph will cover an upcoming match against St. Donovan’s who visit every year to beat them at everything except rugby and rowing. They’ve already done a piece on the rugby team last term so this time there should be one on the rowing team, according to unanimous vote. Tom accompanies the staff to practice, herding his team to the lake at six in the morning when practice supposedly starts.

It’s cold, and they’re bundled up waddling like ducklings to the shore, carting equipment borrowed from the photography club, but no one’s ever said it was a glamorous preoccupation. Tom has a notebook and pen with him, and a thermos of tea to boost team morale. Most of the staff are vocal about their complaints but shuffle gamely on until they’re within sight of the rowing crew.

Tom recognizes Hemsworth almost immediately standing by the paddles, doing stretches. It’s jarring to see him out of context, wearing his rowing kit and laughing among guys built and dressed just like him.

Tom quickly shuts his notebook and shoves it into his pocket. He marches towards the crew to have a word with the coach but stops abruptly when Hemsworth catches his eye and jogs in his direction, meeting him halfway.

Hemsworth plants his hands on his hips, eyeing Tom from head to toe, then back up again. “What are you doing here,” he asks until he sees the team assembled behind Tom; then his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “You’re part of the school paper too?”

“Editor in chief,” Tom confirms, standing a bit straighter at the astonishment in Hemsworth’s voice.

“I should have known,” Hemsworth chuckles. Tom isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a good thing but decides he doesn’t care either way. “You had that look about you.”

He points at the thermos slung over Tom’s shoulder before Tom can ask that he clarify, “Hey – can I have some of whatever’s in that— yeah, thanks,” and starts uncapping the lid. Steam curls into air when he lifts the cup to his mouth, smiling. Then he blinks as he licks his bottom lip experimentally. “There’s no milk in this,” he says. It’s not a question.

Tom snorts. “You don’t sully tea with milk, you lunatic. Tea is meant to be enjoyed as is.”

Hemsworth looks at him incredulously. “From your side of the pond, maybe, it’s ‘sullying’, but where I come from it’s called ‘improving’. And everything can improved with a splash of milk. Ever heard of bubble tea?”

“Ugh,” Tom says. “Give me that.” He doesn’t have to snatch the cup back from Hemsworth because he gives it up willingly, laughing and punching Tom good-naturedly on the shoulder. Behind him, the rest of the crew are gearing up already, shedding their sweatshirts and preparing to set out into the water. The coach yells for Hemsworth who waves back in answer without looking over his shoulder.

“That’s me,” he says to Tom, waggling his eyebrows. “Gotta run but I’ll see you later, then? At lunch?”

Tom nods absently, wincing as he rubs the spot Hemsworth has just punched. “My room,” Hemsworth calls out after him, then trots into a run towards the dock.

Eddie sidles up next to him, a camera hanging from his neck. “Do you know him?”

“Personally?”

Tom shrugs and warms his hands under his armpits.

*

Most of the pictures Eddie took are grainy and out of focus but there are a few that are actually pretty salvageable with some touch-ups so Tom calls it a day. They get a couple of quotes from some of the rowers so that’s something at least, considering most of the athletes they’ve interviewed hardly give them the time of day.

After adjourning a short meeting, Tom heads off to Rawley House and pitches himself onto his bed, shoes and beanie and all, and sleeps for about half an hour. He wakes up tired and bleary-eyed and gargles some mouth wash before setting off for Thompson, elbowing his way through the hall where a mass of exuberant first years are thronged and headed in the opposite direction. It’s a weekend so everyone can pretty much do whatever they want but Tom has his eye on the prize: namely, improving his test scores.

Tom knocks on Hemsworth’s door, and when there’s no answer, lets himself in without apology. Hemsworth hardly locks the door when he’s out, claiming there’s nothing valuable to steal but his autographed copy of  Steven Morrisey’s autobiography. Having a look around, Tom can see that he’s partially right: there’s laundry heaped on every surface, and Hemsworth’s striped navy and white tie is wrapped crookedly around the neck of the standing lamp. An outdated  _Dell_  laptop sits at his desk, plugged into a wall socket and humming in sleep mode. Tom seats himself on Hemsworth’s bed, dropping his book bag to the floor. He’s asleep within minutes.

When he comes to, the room is shrouded in the rosy haze of pre-dusk sunlight. Hemsworth is asleep next to him, turned away with his back facing Tom, body slumped on his side. His breathing is even; it looks like he’s been asleep for a while. They’re under the same blanket and when Hemsworth shifts a little, his feet peek out of the corner and Tom can see his socks don’t match. If Tom were the kind of person he claims to be, he would slip out quietly and head back to Rawley where he’ll wait for the sounding bell of dinner time to signal everybody to the dining hall. Then afterwards he’ll shower, and work on his Philosophy paper before gulping down his evening tea at eleven pm and brushing his teeth before bed.

But the thought of doing all that exhausts him so instead he closes his eyes. When Hemsworth starts to snore soundly, Tom relaxes his grip on the blanket. He lets sleep pull at his eyelids.

*

There is about twenty quid in the production budget, which is disheartening to say the least. The drama club is something Tom works hard to stay afloat because it’s easily forgotten in the face of sports clubs and the accolades they bring. Chess, at least, has some fans in the school administration, but last year when Tom staged a production of A Streetcar Named Desire only twelve people came and one of them had been the school janitor.

They’re really struggling this year with only ten members left, many of whom aren’t as fully committed as Tom.

Tom starts a fundraiser, and with permission from the head teacher, sets up shop in the school quad to sell boxes of cookies for three quid each. It’s a bit steep, for incongruously-shaped cookies baked by a group of inept teenagers, but David says it’s neither about the shape nor taste of them, but the heart put into making them that drives their selling point.

Still, business is slow, and patrons come by in trickles.

Tom is jolted rudely from sleep when someone slaps a hand on the table next to his ear. It takes him a minute to realize he’s fallen asleep at the table, and is possibly drooling a pool of saliva on the inside of his arm. He’s been doing that a lot lately, passing out and waking up in strange places like a narcoleptic.

He blinks a few times until his eyes adjust to the light and sees Hemsworth standing in front of him, his hands inside his pockets, his school tie loosely knotted around his neck. His oxford shirt is untucked, a clear violation of the dress code policy. Tom spies the gleam of a silver cross at his throat even though he knows for a fact Hemsworth is anything but religious.

“What’s this for?” Hemsworth smiles with dimples before seating himself on the table. He reads the label on the box loudly which makes Tom’s face and neck burn. “Sugar Street Sweets: Cookies for a Cause.” He barely hides his chuckle. “How much for a box?”

“Those aren’t for sale,” Tom snaps. When Hemsworth reaches for another box, he swipes it from under his arm and sets it down atop the pile next to him.

“You’re discriminating against me?” Hemsworth puts on an offended voice. “Come on, Tomo. Aren’t we friends?”

“Don’t – who told you to call me that? Just – don’t.” He sighs and puts his head in his hands. It’s been a long day. It’s Friday and he’s got a weekend ahead of him but there’s so much to do. Tom catches himself checking the time until he remembers Hemsworth has taken his watch.

“I’ve clearly upset you,” Hemsworth observes. He reaches over to pat Tom on the shoulder and Tom stiffens when Hemsworth’s thumb moves upwards and catches on the shell of his ear. It’s entirely accidental but that doesn’t explain Tom’s resulting shiver.

Hemsworth doesn’t notice, but pulls back to pocket his hand and resume his usual slouch. There’s something to be said about his casualness; guys like him care about nothing at all and still have a great time of it and it’s a trait that Tom envies.

“I’ll see you around,” Hemsworth nods. He holds up a thumb, the universal sign for chumps, before wishing Tom luck and disappearing behind the bleachers. Several minutes later, he returns with guys Tom recognizes from the rowing crew. Besides sporting the same haircut, they’re all wearing the same disgruntled hangdog face and trudge behind Hemsworth like he’s leading them to their doom.

Hemsworth swings an arm around two of them – Tom names them Tweedledum and Tweedledee – dragging them close to him and squeezing their shoulders.

“I brought some of my friends with me,” he stage-whispers, hunching over Tom’s table so they’re within each other’s eyeline. “And we’d all like a sample of your… _goods_. How much are they again? Three pounds?” He looks around the group, holding out his hand and rubbing his fingers together. It’s clear most of them know why they’re here though they don’t completely agree with it. “Come on guys, shell up some cash. I know you pricks are loaded, haha, nice, you too Alfonso–”

After a collective grumble, they hand over their money – Tom counts a wad of seven crumpled five pound notes, more than the club has made in the last three days. He gives them fourteen boxes. The boxes are passed from hand to hand, and they all politely say their thank you before dispersing off in smaller groups afield.

Only Hemsworth still lingers, misshapen cookie held aloft before he takes a tentative bite and squints. He has the beginnings of a beard – a light dusting of hair on his jaw and throat that makes Tom feel infinitely inferior. But at the same time, it makes his throat run dry, and he rubs at the back of his neck where the ghost of a blush is starting to form.

“This is pretty good, actually,” Hemsworth says, as an afterthought. Then because he can’t be serious for one minute, “You were touched by the hand of the baking gods. Long may they prosper.” He crams the rest of the cookie into his mouth, getting crumbs everywhere on his chin, then smiles and starts walking backwards.

When he’s enough of a distance away, he turns, waving at Tom over his shoulder.

Tom catches himself before he starts to wave back.

*

Hemsworth is everywhere: normally Tom only sees him when he needs tutoring, but lately he’s been asserting his presence. He’s in the dining hall at lunch, reading  _A Treatise of Human Nature_ , slurping pumpkin soup noisily in a corner with a napkin tucked into his shirt; and then later in the week he’s sitting in the bleachers, passing a bag of peanuts around with his friends as they heckle the rugby team during a practice game with St. Donovan’s.

When Hemsworth catches Tom’s eye from the other side of the bleachers, he smiles at him and nods.

To cap off an interesting week, on one of the few occasions Tom decides to use the showers half an hour before closing, Hemsworth is there too, singing Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band off key in one of the stalls.

Tom recognizes his voice, the rolling lazy accent that accompanies it. He sings like he’s swallowed a cheese grater, his melody harsh and scraping. Tom washes up quickly, hyperaware of Hemsworth’s presence in the room, keeping one eye on the shower curtain lest Hemsworth accosts him naked. It’s a silly thought, backed up by nothing but paranoia but it’s a distinct possibility. Hemsworth is as unpredictable as the national lottery; better safe than sorry.

When Tom finishes, stepping into the changing area, he’s expecting Hemsworth to have left on account of how quiet the room has suddenly become, but then someone says, “Hey,” and slaps him solidly on the bare arse.

“ _What_ ,” Tom says. He spins around in a clumsy circle, clutching his towel tightly to his body, his heart jackhammering in his chest. In his haste he nearly trips over the changing bench but Hemsworth’s hand shoots up in time and drags him solidly forward, saving him from braining himself on the floor; his other hand steadies Tom at the hip, never mind that  Tom  is naked and dripping water all over the floor.

“Hey,” Hemsworth says softly. “Relax, it’s just me. You all right?”

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Tom snaps. “How am I all right?”He closes his eyes and forces his breathing to settle but Hemsworth’s proximity to him only makes it even worse. “Ugh. I hate you. Get off me.”

“Sorry about that,” Hemsworth laughs. He doesn’t sound sorry at all but lets Tom go without comment, his gaze falling noticeably south of Tom’s face and then lingering further down. Tom gets the feeling he’s being appraised so he swaddles a towel around his hips and turns, giving Hemsworth his back. A single drop of water slides between his shoulder blades, and he shivers until he realizes too late it’s Hemsworth’s finger tracing the bumps of his spine.

“You’re really freckly,” Hemsworth points out, something like awe and disbelief in his voice. He steps back, giving Tom a wide berth.

“Right,” Tom says eloquently, flushing to the roots of his hair. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended; it’s such a vague statement.

Then Hemsworth changes the topic, which is par for the course, leaning against the lockers behind him with his arms crossing his chest. It’s hard being the only naked person in the room so Tom starts fumbling with his bath kit just so he has something to do with his hands. They shake, slicking up with nervous sweat.

“So how’s Calculus?” Hemsworth says.

“Oh, you know,” Tom responds vaguely.

“Do you remember to carry the ones? I always tell you to carry the ones but you always forget.”

Tom rolls his eyes. Hemsworth probably thinks he’s being funny, but he isn’t. The back of Tom’s neck feels oddly warm but he doesn’t give Hemsworth the satisfaction of looking at him during the entirety of the conversation.

When Tom drops his deodorant on the floor, Hemsworth crouches and scoops it up for him. “Here,” he says, handing it back, standing to his full height until they’re almost nose-to-nose. It’s disconcerting, almost, how blue Hemsworth’s eyes are up close. He’s probably only Tom’s age but there are already deep lines in his forehead.

“Don’t look so nervous now. It’s just the two of us in here,” he says.

“Well, don’t talk like you’re about to jump me,” Tom says hotly, slathering deodorant under his arms violently and pulling a shirt on backwards.

“Sorry,” Hemsworth laughs though he doesn’t really deny the charge. “But seriously, Tom, you need to remember your formulas or you’ll fail spectacularly.”

*

The next two weeks is brutal; Tom has to finalize the script for  _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ and has to handpick the photos they’re going to publish in the next issue of the  _Pantograph._ His Calculus grade is improving because Hemsworth has been doing part of his problem sets, but with another exam looming in on the horizon, he fears for his final grade.

They’re barely halfway into the term but he’s not getting any better; rather, his improvements have been a series of premature half-starts. He tests well when Hemsworth gives him problem sets, but in class he struggles to keep up to pace with Addison. He likes to blame it all on Hemsworth, whose exasperated sighs makes Tom feel like a proper idiot, but he knows part of it is on him: he can’t focus, and perhaps it’s high time to face the facts – Calculus will be the death of him, the only thing standing in the way of Tom getting into the university of his dreams. He doesn’t want to settle for Durham; he’s worked so hard to allow anything less than Oxbridge.

It’s three in the morning when Tom loses it, chucking his pencil at the wall and crumpling the answer sheet he’s been working on since dinner. He’s in Thompson House before he realizes what he’s doing, dressed appropriately in a comfortable robe and dragging his trainers through grass and mud.

“I feel like this is starting to become a trend,” Hemsworth says in greeting but Tom is in no mood for his ribbing and shoulders past him through the door. He tips face-first onto the spare bed, screaming into the mattress, fisting the foam until his nailbeds start to hurt. He hears himself crying before he realizes it, his face damp with tears when he scrunches up into a sitting position and wipes brutally at his eyes with the back of his hands.

“Tom,” Hemsworth says. He’s never said his name like that before, soft and serious. He walks over to the bed but stops all of a sudden, like he’s just remembered himself. “What’s up?” he says, instead.

It’s a combination of a lot of things, really: stress, exhaustion, the fact that in his worst moments Tom feels isolated and alone. He hates everyone and everything. He doesn’t tell Hemsworth all this who continues to watch him with an unreadable expression. It’s not pity per se but something unnamable in his face that makes Tom turn away again, curl into himself and face the wall so Hemsworth doesn’t see him crying.

He feels a tap on his shoulder and looks up a minute later, eyes pinched half-shut from tears. Hemsworth is crouched next to the bed, holding up a felt puppet in his right hand. Tom knows who it’s supposed to be: the trimmed mustache and receding line, and the puffy satin ruff are telling enough.

“If you start reciting Shakespeare, I swear to god—”

Hemsworth shrugs and tilts puppet-Shakespeare to the side. “I’m a Philistine as you very well know, so I can’t quote him to save my life.” He moves the puppet around comically, bobbing its head about like a maniac. “I just got this from a charity shop down the road. I was hoping it would improve your test scores if I used it as an incentive but I ended up wanting to keep it for myself.”

Tom laughs, in spite of himself, and Hemsworth smiles back, faintly. Tom rubs futilely at his eyes until they water some more. He should be embarrassed that Hemsworth’s caught him crying like a little kid but it’s too late for shame now; they’ve already passed that point.

Then, “Can I stay here for a bit?” Tom swallows down a rising hiccup. “I’ll be quiet—I just need some time away from, from everything I guess.”

Hemsworth shrugs in answer. He’s so laidback about everything it’s infuriating but Tom’s never really learned to appreciate the particular trait until now. There are soft dents in his cheek from where he’s slept on his pillow and tufts of his hair are sticking up, front, side, and back. There’s a disconnect between the Hemsworth of the present, who’s looking at Tom so quietly Tom is almost afraid to breathe, and the one he’s often used to seeing, the one who laughs with his mouth full and launches peanut shells at oncoming passersby. It feels like he’s dreaming, the light outside is softened by the dew on the windows and Hemsworth is barefoot in spite of the cold, his toes pale on the mauve carpet; maybe Tom’s been asleep the entire time. Maybe he’s not really here but passed out at his desk.

And then Hemsworth says, “Knock yourself out, mate,” and peels the puppet off one hand and tosses it at Tom without warning. Tom barely catches it in time, hand making a feeble grab at the air. On a whim, he pillows the puppet under his cheek, then closes his eyes. The felt is soft and lovingly worn from years of use, smelling musty like an old shelf might. He remembers, vaguely, playing in the rain as a little kid.

“You can take that little guy with you,” “he hears Hemsworth say, voice further away. “I can tell he’s been feeling a little lonely.”

“Yeah?” Tom mumbles automatically. “Thanks.”

Hemsworth doesn’t respond. An hour after Tom realizes he’s fallen asleep, he wakes up with a heavy blanket draped over him to the sound of Hemsworth’s rapid typing across the room– clack, clack, clack, clackclacklack. There’s a rhythm to it, and it lulls him almost back to sleep.

Tom lifts his eyes from the wall, and lies on his side. He watches him silently.

*

Rowing is St. Bart’s second favourite sport so the turnout to their first match against St. Pascal’s is not as depressing as the turnout to any and all of Tom’s chess tournaments. There’s a proper gaggle of fanboys and everything, waving handmade flags and unfurling banners in the school’s colours.

Class is canceled for the rest of the day which means half the student body is thronged across the shore, yelling their support. Tom has never been one for school spirit but he understands the importance of rooting for your team. He waves a flag weakly, elbowing someone behind him when he’s buoyed forward by the crowd.

Eddie, vice-editor of  _The Pantograph_ , cups his gloved hands around his mouth and calls out the name of his boyfriend, a transfer student from Mumbai named Rafik who’s supposedly half-royalty or something. Rafik doesn’t hear him but that doesn’t stop Eddie from yelling out his name a few more times. He jumps around and waves his arms and almost backhands Tom in the process. “Rafik! Over here!”

But all in all it’s a good day to be outside and it seems like the mood has caught on.

It’s warm enough not to have to wear a scarf and the sun is out for the first time in weeks. The rowing crew is doing warm-up stretches, which drives the crowd wild. For a school full of boys, that’s hardly uncommon. A good fraction of the population is either gay or bi, or in some cases just wildly experimental and Tom is still in the process of figuring out which team he’s playing for. He has some opinions about Hemsworth but he tries not to delve too deeply into them because so far Hemsworth’s debunked every assumption Tom’s ever had about him. He’s a hard one to pin down. To save himself the trouble, Tom tries not to think about him at all, even though he’s standing right across from him on the dock, in a grey sweatshirt and tight shorts, hopping from foot to foot in the cold.

The match is pretty straightforward with St. Pascal’s leading the first half of the race and St. Bart’s picking up speed in the latter half. The rowers pull as hard as they can, the coxswain barks out his instructions. Their technique is seamless, their timing even more so, the boat knifing across the water in a final staggered sprint until the horn blows, signaling the end of the match.

The home team wins, naturally, and it goes without saying that the rest of the day is spent celebrating their victory. The din of the crowd is deafening so Tom leaves Eddie to take the photo of the winning team and disappears into his room to work on his essay. He works in silence for an hour. He’s just finished printing out his assignment when there’s a knock on the door.

“I was looking all over for you,” Hemsworth says without introduction, kicking the door shut behind him. Tom spins his swivel chair around to face him. Hemsworth is wearing the same grey sweatshirt that he’d doffed right before the match against St. Pascal’s. Thankfully, he’s wearing trousers along with them, but with ones with artful rips in the knees designed to be flippantly cool; a shiny gold medal hangs from his neck.

“Congratulations,” Tom says, but Hemsworth waves the comment off and places a bottle of Jack Daniels on the desk. It’s half-full.

“Watered down, probably,” Hemsworth explains when he catches Tom looking at it. “But alcohol is alcohol, right?”

Tom raises an eyebrow and shuts his laptop. “Right,” he says.

“Were you just doing homework? I thought it was a free day.”

Tom shrugs one shoulder as Hemsworth starts touching things at random. It’s not like Hemsworth has never been in his room before – they move their study sessions around frequently – but it’s the first time he’s visited during his leisure hours even though they don’t have any sessions planned. He skims his fingers over the titles of Tom’s books, the rumpled school shirts hanging from a hook behind the door, then to Tom’s surprise, the red toy piano he’d bought from a pound shop propped against the shelf. “Interesting,” he muses and taps a key. He smiles, then, privately to himself.

“I wanted to get a head start on my essay,” Tom says, even though he knows he doesn’t have to explain himself to Hemsworth of all people. “I’ve still got another paper to finish and I haven’t even written half of my script. I wanted to feel productive; I hate wasting time. I stayed and watched the match but left before it got too crazy. People were pushing me.” He stops to pop a crick in his neck and finds he has nothing more to say after that. His face flushes when Hemsworth continues to look at him, one eyebrow raised. 

“You’re the crazy one,” Hemsworth intones, shaking his head. “But I guess that’s your one redeeming quality. The fact that you don’t give a shit about anything but your grades.” His smile has morphed into something crooked, and he thumbs his bottom lip thoughtfully.

Tom doesn’t know whether to feel hurt or angry by the comment but there’s too much going on at the moment so he lets it slide for now.

Finally, Hemsworth says, “Got any cups?” diminishing the moment to nothing.

*

“Can I just say that it’s a blessing to be squarely and dearly out of the outback?” Hemsworth slurs. “Sometimes though, you just miss it. The beaches, the vegemite, mostly the food. Everything tastes like cardboard here; no wonder you’re all so frail.” He takes a swig of the bottle and pitches it into the water once he realizes it’s empty. “No offense.”

“Of course,” Tom says. He should’ve been annoyed by now but he’s also had a fair bit to drink which means every word that comes out of Hemsworth’s mouth is funnier to him than usual. Turns out, the whiskey hadn’t been watered down. Hemsworth thought it would be a good idea to teach Tom how to row and Tom didn’t even complain when he was dragged all the way to the boathouse where the crew’s best equipment was kept.

Which brings them to their current predicament: in the middle of a freezing lake, and they’re giggling like little girls in the dark. Hemsworth points emphatically at the moon and clumsily steers the oar one-handed but they’ve been going around in circles for the past fifteen minutes and Tom’s teeth are starting to knock together.

“Oh grim-looked night, oh night with hue so black!” Hemsworth exclaims. “Oh night, which ever art when day is not!”

“O night, O night!” Tom responds. “Alack, alack, alack.”

They both burst into peals of laughter at the same time when ordinarily nothing would be funny.

Hemsworth shakes his head at him, kicking Tom lightly on the foot. Tom hadn’t even known he read Shakespeare but then again there’s a lot he doesn’t know about Hemsworth.

“You sad posh Shakespeare fiend,” Hemsworth says. It doesn’t sound like a bad thing coming from him.

Tom sticks out his tongue and rubs warmth back into his elbows. His breath shapes the air when he breathes in stuttery gasps. “It’s not my fault I’m well-read.”

“It’s not,” Hemsworth wholeheartedly agrees. “It’s actually weirdly attractive.”

“Shut up,” Tom snorts, knowing somehow that Hemsworth is only teasing: but the look in his eyes makes Tom flush and he shivers not from the cold. “ _Shut up_.”

“I wasn’t even saying anything at the time,” Hemsworth shoots back.

Tom laughs and kicks him gently on the knee and in the ensuing scuffle – Hemsworth lunging at him to tickle him softly in the ribs, Tom shrieking and shoving at his chest – the boat capsizes, effectively plunging them into the dark of the water.

 

*

They leave the boat on the dock. Teeth chattering violently, Hemsworth sneaks them into the showers and because the door is locked at this hour, somehow manages to produce a key.

It’s something Tom doesn’t question as he gasps warm air onto his hands. There are other things to worry about like the fact he can’t stop shaking and he can feel water clogging his brand new shoes. It looks like neither can Hemsworth: he fumbles with the doorknob for a few more moments, dropping the key on the ground before sliding it home after several clumsy attempts.

After wrestling with the damn door, they turn the hot water on and as if by some stroke of serendipitous luck, only two out of the two dozen showerheads work.

Hemsworth, who doesn’t care for propriety, starts toeing off his shoes, pulling his sweatshirt over his head before unbuckling his jeans. Tom takes a moment to catalogue the fine details of him undressing from the triangular shape of his upper torso to the slim taper of his waist. He’s got fine shoulders and strong arms, and a dusty sprinkle of hair on his legs and –

Tom starts undressing himself, sobered by the progression of his thoughts. He jumps into the shower, naked as a newborn, snapping the curtain shut so he doesn’t have to witness Hemsworth dancing around under the steam with his dick flopping about.  _Christ_.

Tom breathes a sigh of relief as hot water slides down his shoulders, stinging his skin. He keeps his gaze to the wall, ignoring Hemsworth’s appreciative noises across the room. Warmth floods his bones and he allows himself a moment to relax. The moment is short-lived, however, when the curtain slides open and Hemsworth steps inside the stall.

“Move over,” he grouses. Clumps of hair are plastered onto his forehead and the meat of his neck is flushed.  He’s still shaking, just as much as Tom is though the colour on his lips and cheeks are back. “The water’s turned lukewarm because there’s two of us,” he says.

“That’s hardly my problem is it? Get out— get—” Tom shoves at him but is careful about touching him too much because they’re both naked and that could potentially end awkwardly.

“I have whatever you have so I don’t get what all the fuss is about,” Hemsworth says, grabbing him by the wrist. “I used to shower with my brothers all the time and all we had was a little garden hose. We bathed like savages.”

Tom frowns at him, then bursts out laughing once he’s finished painting a mental picture. Hemsworth still has his wrist in his grip but it’s easy to slip away when his heart isn’t really in it.

“You’re mental, Hemsworth,” Tom says, turning up the shower setting, rolling his eyes. “Absolutely, _positively_  mental.”

 “This isn’t prison, you know, so you don’t have to worry about me coming at you with a shiv,” Hemsworth promises. He’s standing so close that it’s making Tom a little delirious; the hair on the back of his neck stands on end in response to his proximity.  He feels a twitch of – something or other but decides to ignore it in favour of getting warm again.

When Hemsworth nudges at him playfully, laying a hand on each shoulder, Tom can almost feel the stiff peaks of Hemsworth’s nipples brushing him on the back. But he doesn’t say anything about it, and neither does Hemsworth even if he does notice Tom leaning slightly back out of reflex; he takes a cautious step back, giving Tom enough room to maneuver around.

They stand in the shower, not looking anywhere else but the ceiling. Tom’s never felt more ludicrous in his life, not until Hemsworth starts humming quietly, and softly out of tune. It sets the both of them laughing even though Tom can’t pinpoint what it is exactly that’s funny. Maybe he’s had too much to drink; maybe Hemsworth’s brand of crazy has caught on.

“You’re so pale, it’s like you’ve lived your whole life inside a cupboard,” Hemsworth says.

“Shut up,” Tom says, still laughing. “ _Shut up_.” He pokes him, hard, on the shoulder and the bastard Hemsworth doesn’t even budge.

*

The Dance is something people look forward to every year. Situated before the holiday break and right after Halloween, it breaks monotony and gives people something to think about other than coursework.

For the straight people, it’s a chance to interact with the opposite sex; for the rest of the school populace, it’s a night of pomade and ill-fitting suits.

Tom has finished his script just days before The Dance so he has a bit of time on his hands to figure out what to wear. He settles on last year’s outfit: too short at the ankles and wrists now that he’s shot up several inches but it’ll have to do. He’s never been the sartorial type but worries for a moment that he’ll look like an idiot. He shakes off the thought and shrugs on a suit jacket and tugs ineffectually at his skewed bowtie.

He meets David at the door of the gymnasium which is decorated in paper streamers and tinsel. The floor is covered in balloons of all colours and the school has invited a whiny cover band. It’s just like last year except that there are more girls from St. Meredith’s. The wallflowers are stationed on their respective posts, eyeing each other nervously across the room.

The only reason Tom makes an appearance is to make sure his picture is taken and included in the yearbook. He runs his fingers through his curls, tamed down for the event, and feels like a phony.

“Not too shabby, Hiddleston,” David crows, giving him a two-fingered salute. “Nice touch on the bowtie, by the way.  _Rawr_.”

Tom rolls his eyes.

He makes his rounds and makes small-talk with members of the drama club, then has a quick word with the editorial staff of the school paper. All of them are in attendance including Eddie who seems a bit moony- eyed with his boyfriend in tow, but at least he’s remembered to bring his camera for a photo-op.

The punch doesn’t seem spiked, the catering looks decent, the music is tolerable, which seem like the makings of a good evening and yet Tom feels like he’s experiencing everything through clingfilm. Nothing feels real and the whole evening plays like an idea of a good time, with all the trappings of mediocrity.

When after an hour nothing of interest happens, Tom ducks out of the gym and walks back to Rawley. But then a familiar head of hair catches his attention and without his consent, his legs take him back to the quad. He follows Hemsworth past the bleachers, then behind the remodeled chapel braced with last year’s scaffolding. And then Hemsworth opts to stop abruptly, sitting cross –legged on the grass to pull out a lighter and hand-rolled cigarette simultaneously.

Tom watches him from the shadows, until Hemsworth flicks his cigarette in his direction and exhales. The end of his cigarette glows orange in the gloaming. He takes another puff and calls Tom out of the dark, one hand lifted in a wave. “I know you’re there,” he says. “Don’t try to hide now; I could hear you breathing from here.”

Tom flushes but doesn’t allow himself the embarrassment. “That better not be what I think it is,” he says as he pads out of his hiding place: the moss-covered statue of St. Joan of Arc.

Hemsworth laughs, and after all this time it’s still a sound that makes the pit of Tom’s stomach flutter with nerves. “It’s not. It’s just a figment of your imagination. In a few minutes, I can probably make it disappear. Just you wait.”

“You’ll get yourself in trouble like that,” Tom says, frowning. He’s not a snitch, but if push comes to shove –

“And lose my scholarship, and so on,” Hemsworth replies blithely. “I know, I know. Don’t worry. These aren’t really cigarettes—”

“Jesus,” Tom says, cottoning on. Hemsworth smiles in the dark and beckons him closer and like an utter moron, Tom follows, tucking himself on the grass. He lies flat on his back like a starfish, his view of the stars partially obscured by the obnoxious shadow of the weeping willow. He closes his eyes and opens them, runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth in thought.

“You’re smoking pot,” he states flatly.

“Pardon the American turn of phrase but:  _bingo._ ”

Tom snorts. “You think you’re  _so_  cool.”

“Don’t presume to know what I think,” Hemsworth tells him cheerfully.  “You hardly even know me.” He takes another puff of his cigarette and smoke rises up into the air in gauzy clouds.

“So tell me about yourself, then,” Tom says.

Hemsworth goes, without breaking stride, “You first.”

Tom raises both his eyebrows, as if to ask him,  _really,_  but Hemsworth just waves a hand and gestures for him to continue. It’s nice here, behind the chapel. He can hear himself think.  

Tom sits up and throws his hands around his legs, tucking his face between his knees.

“My parents divorced a year ago. My two sisters are  _champion_  ballerinas—”

“I didn’t say talk to me about your family,” Hemsworth interrupts, punching him gently on the back. “I asked about you. Tell me about you.”

Tom looks at him over his shoulder and shrugs. He loosens his bowtie, suddenly in need of air. Hemsworth hasn’t even bothered dressing up tonight: he’s in a sweatshirt and matching track pants. Oddly enough, he pulls the whole ensemble off.  All that’s missing is a backwards cap.

“There’s nothing to say,” Tom says.

“Sure there is.” Now it’s Hemsworth’s turn to shrug. “I can think of a few things right now.”

He smiles and hands Tom his cigarette, saving him the trouble of asking. Tom’s never smoked pot before but figures now is a good time as well as any to partake. It tastes like nothing he’s ever thought pot to taste like: like something grown in fresh soil and connected with the earth.

They sit in silence for a while, passing the cigarette back and forth until it dwindles down to a nub. Hemsworth takes one last puff and stubs it out in the damp grass behind him and then walks Tom back halfway to Rawley, hands inside the front pockets of his sweatshirt.

“Do you have any more of those?” Tom asks, at random. He feels both giddy and strangely at peace.

“Sure,” Hemsworth laughs. “Couple more back in my room. Why?”

Tom gives him a significant look which somehow Hemsworth manages to interpret accurately through the magic of pot. He leads the way to Thompson, gait lazier than usual, but halfway there before they turn a corner, they run into Ben. Ben is Tom’s old tormentor before he transferred out to St. Meredith’s two years ago, the only coeducational school within a hundred kilometer radius of St. Bart’s.

Tom’s almost forgotten about him until tonight. Ben and his donkey bray of a laugh. Ben and his shit attitude. He shoulders past Tom, then whips around and calls him out when the collision makes him stumble. He seems a little bit drunk tonight but then again he always does even without the aid of alcohol. “Watch it, oi—” he says, but then his eyes settle on Tom’s face.

“It’s you.”  Suddenly, his gaze sharpens. “Tomo,” he begins, “Tomo the homo.” His laughter is mean and juvenile like a child’s but some things never change.

Tom ignores him and follows Hemsworth down the path but then Ben begins chanting the horrible nickname over and over. He’s embarrassed that Hemsworth will hear so he walks faster and grabs his wrist but Hemsworth only lets it slip through his grasp.

“I can’t believe you still go here. Didn’t you have a nervous breakdown?”  

“You know the guy?” Hemsworth asks, turning abruptly.

“Unfortunately,” Tom mumbles. “Just ignore him. He’ll go away eventually. He used to hide all my books when we were roommates.  He started a rumour that I was gay and people started calling me Tomo the Homo for about a year until he transferred out. Then it kind of died down for a bit when I ran for chess club president.”

“Jesus,” Hemsworth breathes. “ _Really?_ ”

Tom shrugs. It’s all water under the bridge now so he can say it with a straight face. He’s had therapy. He’s not going to dwell on it. It’s an annoying part of his past, for sure, – but like his therapist says it’s experiences like that that’ll make him stronger, that’ll shape the way for a brighter future. It gives a person perspective though some of the time Tom wishes his mum had talked to him instead of hiring a licensed professional for thirty pounds an hour.

“Is that your boyfriend?” Ben taunts. He stops talking when Hemsworth’s standing about two inches away from his face. Tom gets a bad feeling in his stomach but before he can do anything, Hemsworth takes Ben by the shoulders and smiles serenely.

“You otter-faced prick,” he says before headbutting him.

Somehow it’s even more satisfying to see Ben in pain than Tom could ever imagine.

*

Hemsworth nurses his migraine with another strong joint. He moans and cradles his forehead in one hand, before tipping back his head and blowing smoke rings into the air.

They’re hiding out in his room before Ben has the opportunity to tattle. Tom doubts Ben would – he’s got too much pride for such a dick move – but right now it’s the excuse they both hide behind to justify Tom’s presence in his room.

Tom doesn’t feel like walking back to Rawley because that would be rather anticlimactic, considering tonight’s events, and Hemsworth  _did_  implicitly promise to share his pot.

Maybe it’s the high talking but it feels like Tom is seeing things in a new lens. In the course of a day the world is suddenly in technicolour and he can’t stop his mouth from forming words he’s not supposed to say out loud.

“Thanks for earlier,” he says, sitting himself at Hemsworth’s feet on the bed. He leans against the wall behind him, pulls his knees up and hides his smile behind his arms.

“I didn’t do it for you, you vain arsehole,” Hemsworth says with one eye shut. “I did it because he wouldn’t shut up.”

“Well,” Tom says, “Thanks, anyway.”

Hemsworth grunts noncommittally in response. He puts his cigarette away for a moment, on top of a can of contraband Red Bull and then awkwardly crawls across the bed to sit himself next to Tom. He bumps their shoulders together and says, smiling gently, “Look at you. In your pretty bowtie and fruity-smelling pomade.  _Christ_.”

“You look like a chav,” Tom bandies back easily.

“You thought I peddled drugs,” Hemsworth reminds him. “The first time we met. I’m not surprised you think that.”

Tom hums, turning his attention back to his lap, closing his eyes. He looks up when Hemsworth’s hand covers his knee. He doesn’t push it off but he does nothing about it either which is a standing metaphor for everything in his life. He’s sixteen years old; he waits for things to happen to him.

“I think we’ve severely underestimated how awkward of a first meeting that was,” Hemsworth says, before giving his knee a squeeze. “Oh, hey, I still have your watch.” He pulls his sleeve up to show Tom and Tom laughs and thumps his head against the wall. Then his heart pushes painfully out of his ribs when Hemsworth catches his chin in one hand. Without prompting, because of course, that’s how he operates. Tom doesn’t know why he expects anything less.

Hemsworth grins, all teeth, and presses their foreheads together. He rubs his nose across Tom’s cheek and runs his knuckles ever lightly against his jaw. It’s a tender gesture befitting someone else. He touches Tom like’s fragile, like he’s spun glass. “I think I may be a little concussed,” he jokes but Tom pulls him forward by the ties of his sweatshirt and hisses into his face: “Will you stop— will you be serious for once?”

“I’m sorry. All I can think of right now is how much I want to put my mouth on your mouth and my di—”

“Oh, just shut up.” Tom says. “ _Shut up_.”

“All right,” Hemsworth concedes. He reaches out and touches Tom softly on the cheek and kisses him, once, twice; the third time long enough that by the time he pulls away, Tom’s sigh makes his entire body shudder and curl with unexpected warmth. It’s a bit like getting drunk: everything feels sharper and dream-like at the same time.

“I thought I had you pegged but you continually surprise me,” Tom says, before he’s rolled underneath Hemsworth and pinned under his considerable weight. Hemsworth brings their faces closer together, and rubs his thumb across Tom’s bottom lip until it gives and parts under his finger and Tom opens his mouth to breathe.

Then he kisses Tom again, so soft Tom can hardly stop himself from smiling. He closes his eyes and shudders and lets Hemsworth fall onto him, an avalanche of fumbling hands and taut planes of muscle. He tries to think of the events that led them this moment but the rest of the world slides easily out of existence when Hemsworth’s ragged thumbnail scrapes the dip of his bellybutton under his shirt.

What’s important is this, now: Hemsworth kissing him, cool as you please, like he’s done it before, like he’ll most likely do it again. He tastes like pot and berry punch. It’s an intoxicating combination.

The silver cross Hemsworth wears around his neck swings with their movement, later when they begin to undress, but Tom catches it in his mouth in the approximation of a kiss and tugs it forward with his teeth.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
